Edging myself is not something I do deliberately very often. I’m terrible at self-denial (and not just when it comes to orgasms; I’ll eat chocolate until I feel sick and smoke until my lungs hurt because – well, why on earth would I stop?!)

I love being edged by someone else – not just the tantalising feeling of almost-but-not-quite, but mostly the delicious knowledge that someone else is in control of my physical sensations and that they are doing to me what they want. The cheerfully sadistic grin on The Fella’s face when he pulls his hand from my clit at the last second and watches me writhe in torment only intensifies my pleasure and longing. Despite my pleading and gasping for release, I’m almost disappointed when he finally gives in and allows me to come.

But when it’s just me doing me, where’s the fun in holding back? When I’m pleasuring myself, it’s all about the buildup to orgasm; in my mind the climax is the goal and the purpose of the whole exercise – why would I not take it to conclusion as fast and hard as I can?

This time was different. I had a whole evening alone in an anonymous and rather dingy hotel room, no mobile signal to speak of and no desire to spend my leisure time getting ahead on my work. Obviously, the logical thing to do was to have a wank. A nice, long, leisurely wank that would keep me occupied until sleeptime. How to make sure it would go on long enough? Clearly the answer was to indulge in some edging. An solution to be found lurking in the cracks, as it were.

I take off my clothes slowly and deliberately, folding each item neatly away in my suitcase until I’m standing naked in front of the full-length mirror. Appraising myself with the eyes of a lover, I run my hands across my breasts, up my legs, over my buttocks with a light sensual touch. Not the sort of touch I’d usually favour when bringing myself off – no pinching, grabbing or squeezing this time; I was taking it slow.

I lie down on the double bed, relishing the feel of cool crisp cotton sheets against my bare skin. Forcing myself to keep still and absorb the sensation, to keep my greedy hands under control and away from my hungry cunt.

As my nipples harden, I turn over onto my back and spread my limbs; imagining ropes around my ankles and wrists, securing me to the corners of the bed and restricting my movements. I hold myself there, straining against illusory bonds and feeling the breeze from the window caress my slick and swollen labia.

This is sweet torture. I want to shove my fingers inside myself and fuck myself hard.

But I don’t.

I reach to the bedside table for the bullet I’d placed there earlier and switch it on. Not my usual favoured medium-intensity steady buzz but a staccato pattern of long and short impulses. I tuck the bullet against my clit and close my legs, trapping it in place. No hands. Not yet.

The wait between each pulse seems longer and longer each time, the sensation heightened with each vibration. Before it can overwhelm me, I move the bullet to my left nipple then my right. It’s as though each has a direct line of nerves to my clit, in the absence of stimulation there, my breasts are super-sensitive. I want to twist, pinch, pull on them.

Not yet, I tell myself

Wait for it, you greedy slut

I circle the opening to my cunt with the bullet, never allowing it inside even as I buck my hips and groan to be filled with something – anything. I want to batter myself cross-eyed with the biggest dildo I can find, grind my clit against the throbbing bullet, choke myself until my orgasm burns though me.

But I don’t.

For hours, I keep myself teetering on the brink, keeping rigidly still with my hands by my sides and my legs spread whenever the rising tide of arousal threatens to overpower me, then starting again, with light gentle strokes, and fleeting pulses; trailing my hands over my quivering body, sucking on my fingers to taste myself, unwilling to let the tension reach its peak.

Finally, after the sixth – or was it seventh? – stagger back from the brink, I decide to allow myself to come. This time, I grab myself, slap my breasts, squeeze my throat, set the bullet to maximum intensity and grind it into my clit relentlessly, jabbing three fingers into myself with my other hand, abandoning myself to the overwhelming urge to climax and screaming into the pillows as an intense orgasm takes me over.

When the aftershocks have subsided – at least ten minutes later – I stumble to my feet on shaking legs and prepare for bed.

I love/hate edging, it’s a strange kink I have that revs me up so high it’s insane. You wrote the act of edging so well it felt exactly how the whole process feels. The anticipation of coming to the edge so many times before finally getting to fall over it.

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Edging myself is not something I do deliberately very often. I’m terrible at self-denial (and not just when it comes to orgasms; I’ll eat chocolate until I feel sick and smoke until my lungs hurt because – well, why on…

Edging myself is not something I do deliberately very often. I’m terrible at self-denial (and not just when it comes to orgasms; I’ll eat chocolate until I feel sick and smoke until my lungs hurt because – well, why on…

Edging myself is not something I do deliberately very often. I’m terrible at self-denial (and not just when it comes to orgasms; I’ll eat chocolate until I feel sick and smoke until my lungs hurt because – well, why on…